Chapter 8 - The Neighborhood Whispers

Word travels fast in Chicago’s elite North Shore neighborhoods, but bad news travels at the speed of light. By Wednesday morning, the gated community where Dominic and I had shared our sprawling limestone mansion was buzzing with scandal.

I returned to the estate accompanied by two movers and a private security detail provided by Richard Mercer to collect my remaining personal belongings.

As the moving van parked in the circular driveway, I noticed several neighbors peeking through their pristine plantation shutters. Mrs. Higgins, the self-appointed neighborhood gossip committee president, was already standing near her manicured hedges, pretending to prune hydrangeas that were currently dead in the winter frost.

I stepped out of the black SUV, wearing a tailored cashmere coat and sunglasses, my head held high.

Mrs. Higgins hurried across the paved walkway, her face a mask of faux concern. "Evelyn, my dear! We heard the most dreadful rumors about the Meridian Gala... and Dominic... is everything alright?"

I stopped, removing my sunglasses just enough to look her directly in the eye. "Never better, Eleanor. In fact, I've never felt more liberated."

"But... but we heard Dominic’s accounts were frozen, and the police were spotted near the front gates yesterday—"

"Not the police, Eleanor. Federal auditors," I corrected her smoothly with a polite, razor-sharp smile. "It turns out living beyond your means catches up to you when you forget who actually holds the deed to the house."

Before Mrs. Higgins could stammer out another question, the front door of the mansion swung open. Dominic stepped out onto the grand portico. He looked like a man who had aged ten years in four days—his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, his expensive designer suit rumpled and unpressed.

"Evelyn," he rasped, stumbling down the stone steps toward me. "Evelyn, please. We need to talk. This has gone far enough. Call off your lawyers. Call off Mercer."

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I turned slowly to face him, letting my gaze sweep over the pathetic wreck of a man who, just four days ago, had ordered me out of his home by morning.

"Talk about what, Dominic?" I asked calmly. "The weather? The state of your ruined finances? Or perhaps the clause in the prenup you forgot to read?"